


Run For The Hills

by vallhalla



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: M/M, Teenager AU, dallon can see peoples emotions with colors that generate off of them, mentions of past sexual abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-12-04 13:11:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11555904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vallhalla/pseuds/vallhalla
Summary: Dallon Weekes sees people in colors, but lacks his own.Brendon Urie is the ever changing swirl of colors in the bleak grey of Dallon's life.





	Run For The Hills

**Author's Note:**

> hello hello hello!
> 
> as soon as i saw those pictures of Brendon in those red pants, i started writing this. there was supposed to be a line regarding Brendon being "an almost constant swirl of firey red, orange, and yellow" but was cut out in favor of Brendon bringing ALL the colors into Dallon's life. hope you forgive me :)
> 
> regarding the "mentions of past sexual abuse", its nothing graphic and doesn't go into anything close to detail, but it's still there nonetheless. 
> 
> there's also a sex scene, the second one i've ever written. while you're reading it, please keep in mind that i'm a 17 year old asexual gay girl. i don't know what goes down with guys. sorry.
> 
> special thanks:
> 
> ellie and aidan, who will never read this
> 
> the damn groupchat, which changes names too much for me to pinpoint and put up with all my questions about gay sex
> 
> and kasey, the best girlfriend in the world. i love you.

If Dallon were a color, he’d be grey. A quick google search always told him that the color grey symbolized cool and calculated, neither of which Dallon was. But it also meant dull, or emotionless. Formal. Conservative. Other synonyms for boring, which is what Dallon was usually called by his classmates, who were always paint splatters of blues and greens and purples. He didn’t do much else besides go to school, go to church, and play music. In fact, music was the only cool thing about him, as most people would probably agree. He’d started piano lessons as soon as he was tall enough to sit on the bench with the pianist at church, the black and white keys becoming a second home and mixing together to form the grey that flooded Dallon’s mind. And there was his ukulele, his closest friend, and his bass that he played for the school’s jazz band. For his first three years of high school, he was known solely as ‘that tall, loner mormon kid with the bass’, and that was fine with him.

Until Brendon Urie moved to town.

Brendon waltzed into church on that summer morning wearing tight red pants and a black shirt that was buttoned up to his throat. Brendon was shadowed in black in the middle of his pure white family.

Dallon, on the other hand, couldn't stop staring at the Urie family. The church didn't get many new families- most people don’t move to Las Vegas to settle down and go to church. Unless they’re drunk twenty-something's looking to be married by an Elvis impersonator in a run down chapel. Different churches, different lifestyles.

Dallon kept his fingers on the piano keys and his head full of prayers. He could play all the songs backwards if he wanted to- the music in front of him was no longer necessary. The Uries held his attention now- the five younger girls dressed in whites and ivories and their son in black and red. The girls and their parents kept their eyes locked on the sermon happening in front of them, but the son’s eyes wandered. The stained glass windows, the elderly man in front of him who generated a soft pink.

Finally, finally, Brendon’s eyes moved to meet Dallon’s, sometime during a reading from the Bible. The only son of the Urie family broke into a wide grin, putting Dallon into a cage in an instant. Dallon couldn’t hide behind his piano right now.

Dallon blinked, not knowing what to do. Brendon leaned forward, just a little, enough for Dallon to notice, and mouthed something Dallon didn't catch as he held an imaginary gun up to his head and pulled the trigger.

Red. Dallon saw red.

The mouth splitting grin never left his face, even as he straightened his back. Dallon gulped and averted his gaze back to the pastor.

As soon as the service was over, or what felt like it, Dallon is playing the exit melodies when he is approached by the Urie boy.

“You’re really good,” a voice says above Dallon. Dallon’s eyes don’t leave his fingers on the white keys, already knowing who is speaking to him. “Loads better than the old lady back in Saint George.”

“Thank you,” Dallon says tightly. He can almost hear his mother scolding him. Manners, manners. Dallon finally looks up, a smile forced onto his face. Brendon was dark pink now. Almost purple. “You’re from Utah.”

“Brendon Urie, former Utah resident at your service.”

Dallon wished Brendon would stop changing colors. It hurt his eyes.

Dallon looked back down at his hands, trying to concentrate on the music and not the boy in front of him, whose attractive face is smiling down at him warmly and his pink fading to yellow. “Dallon Weekes. I’d shake your hand, but.”

Brendon hums absently, and Dallon can hear a ring clicking against the top of the piano, like Brendon is getting impatient. “You know where I can go to have some fun around here, Dallon Weekes?”

Dallon finishes playing the song and stands up, shutting the top and scooping up the unused music book. “It’s Las Vegas. Just about everywhere.” Dallon picks up his bag and moves around the piano, hoping to make it clear to Brendon Urie that he doesn't want to talk.

Brendon moves around him, sky blue now. Dallon closes his eyes tightly. Too bright. Couldn't Brendon Urie be normal and stay one color?

“We’re neighbors! I saw you yesterday.”

Dallon opened one eye. He didn’t remember that. Dallon thought for sure he’d remember seeing someone with so many colors. Dallon wondered how Brendon Urie had noticed plain old grey Dallon.

That also meant that the Uries had moved into the house that had been sitting vacant to the right of the Weekes’ for ninety four days.

Not that he’d been keeping track.

“Good to know.”

Brendon looks hurt, and the blue darkens to deep purple. “Which means we can, like, hang out. Or go to school together, or whatever.” He’s sheepish now. Dallon can’t quite place a color.

“No thank you. Once school starts I promise you’ll find somewhere to have fun.”

Dallon turned to go find his parents, not bothering to let his eyes linger as Brendon Urie fades to grey.

-

December.

Dallon liked December. Las Vegas started to catch up on the whole winter thing, the temperatures dropping to sixty instead of ninety and the sky was always cloudy and grey. Some radio stations were playing Christmas music now, but his parents always changed the station.

Dallon didn’t mind. He liked seeing the red and green colors on the streets. The red coffee cups weren’t so bad on the eyes, but his father liked to complain at breakfast anyway. It wasn’t like Dallon paid much attention to that kind of thing anyway.

He wondered what his father would say if Dallon told him what he saw. How his father was blood red more often than not, or sometimes pine green, like the Christmas ads that he loathed.

Around this time of year, the Christmas colors were everywhere. People with money on their minds. Thinking about that lusty gift they got for their lover, or the jealousy for the better decorated house next door.

Dallon remained grey, mostly. He felt softer, sometimes almost white, while he was alone with his ukulele, or a grey so dark it was practically black as he sat by himself at lunch at school.

Brendon Urie made appearances, popping in and out of Dallon’s life with flashes of color. He was orange sitting on the stairs with his friends before and after school, the lightest shade of yellow Dallon had ever seen when he sat in the dark of one of the practice rooms, playing piano. An olive green that was exactly the opposite of his father when he played with his sisters in the street outside their houses. He always stayed black at church.

Once, when Dallon was walking to advanced chemistry and Brendon was walking in the other direction, a grey-ish blue, their shoulders brushed. When Dallon turned to apologize, Brendon had just continued walking, leaving a trail of pink color in his wake.

Dallon felt his own color spectrum shift to the right, then scuttled off.

Dallon had noticed that the Uries were away a lot, and their son took full advantage of that. Dallon spent many nights staring out his window as cars lined the streets, hundreds of people filing in and out of the house than a woman and man used to live in, where Dallon would play piano for them when he was a kid and in turn the woman would give him cookies and the man would tell him life’s greatest secrets.

The man had told Dallon in hushed whispers that God didn’t exist. Dallon doesn’t remember what else the guy had said after that, just remembers that he didn’t say no.

Dallon didn’t go back after that, and had been grey since then.

Nothing much better could be going on inside that house now, anyway. Dallon had heard whispers of Brendon Urie and his crazy parties; had heard that they were the best parties in the school- crazy that he came from the Mormon church, how come that other Mormon kid wasn’t like him?

December 24th, and Dallon was alone in the house. His parents had gone to some church event or another, miles and miles away. The Urie household was at full capacity, but Dallon doubted that it was a harmless Christmas party. There was probably mistletoe and peppermint schnapps and girls in scantily clad Santa costumes.

The window was almost cold as Dallon pressed his forehead against it, staring as a couple kissed heatedly against the side of the white siding of the Urie house, both curls of deep red and pink.

Dallon had been watching for two and a half minutes when he realized it was two guys. One of them being Brendon.

Dallon closed his eyes, counted to ten, then opened them.

Brendon and the guy were gone, probably to disappear into one of the bedrooms or closets of that horrible house.

Dallon had heard. Had heard that Brendon was sexually promiscuous. The other teenagers at church whispered at the youth group that Brendon didn't attend that Mr. Urie caught Brendon with another boy. One of the trumpets in the Jazz band said it was a guy and a girl, but the girl who sat behind him in English swore on her life that she had been there, and it was two guys.

The worst part, the worst part was that the thought of Brendon Urie with a guy never, ever made Dallon sick. Not even two of them.

Now that the pair was gone, Dallon’s heart was thumping loudly in his chest. He was alone.

Dallon pushed away from his desk, the chair rubbing loudly against the wooden floors. Dallon grabbed clean clothes from his closet, pulling them on quickly before he could change his mind.

He pulled on his shoes. Shrugged on his sweatshirt. Pushed his hair away from his face. Rubbed his eyes.

What was he doing? What was he doing?

Dallon had never been to a party. Dallon was lonely. Brendon Urie was throwing a party. Brendon wasn’t lonely.

The mirror in the hallway reflected dark grey at him as he passed, but Dallon did not bother looking. He couldn’t bring himself to do it.

As soon as Dallon stepped out of his door he could hear music, some sort of loud rock that Dallon didn't recognize because it wasn’t church music or Christmas music. There was lots of bass that Dallon liked, thumping hard in his chest, and a cool keyboard rhythm that Dallon could hear in the tips of his fingers.

Dallon didn’t knock on the door because it was wide open, drunk and high teenagers walking in and out as they pleased.

The house looked the same, except for all the people and the new furniture. Underneath the large window was no longer a piano but a couch, perfect for fitting six kids. And there, in the corner was a piano, but nothing like the one the old neighbors had, which had been old and out of tune. This one was large and black and glossy, clearly well kept. Dallon wished he could play it.

He pushed through the masses of people towards the kitchen, hoping someone would hand him a drink but also refuse to give him one at the same time.

The counter that once held cookies were now lined with different bottles of alcohol, so Dallon reached forward and started mixing, just to look busy, and hopefully not so nervous.

All the color was hurting Dallon’s eyes. Couldn’t all these people just calm down? Tone it down to the steady grey that Dallon himself always was?

Dallon had just poured some sort of juice into the cup when someone appeared next to him.

“Hey, aren’t you the bass player? David?”

“Dallon.”

“Yeah, Dallon!” Dallon turned to face the guy, who Dallon vaguely recognized. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you super religious, or something?”

The guy appeared to be delightfully drunk and was a solid golden color, not something Dallon saw very much. His glasses were slightly askew and his hat was sitting awkwardly on his head.

“So is Brendon, but here we are.”

“No way, he doesn’t believe in that bullshit. No offense, man.”

“None taken. Hey, Patrick, do you know where Brendon is?”

Patrick-Stump-from-sophomore-algebra shrugged. “Probably off in a closet with Ross or smoking with Walker somewhere.”

The lump in Dallon’s throat tightened. He quickly brought his drink to his lips in an attempt to hide his inability to speak yet. The drink didn't taste good, but Dallon gulped it down quickly. “Fuck, is this your first time drinking?”

Dallon shrugged, then pushed past Patrick to go look elsewhere.

Dallon knew the Ross and Walker Patrick had been referring to, two of the people Brendon was usually seen with. Ryan Ross was in all of Dallon’s advanced classes and then some more, in a heated race to the top of the senior class against Hayley Williams, and Jon Walker was probably taking a leisurely stroll to the bottom. Dallon didn’t know how Brendon had become friends with those two.

Dallon didn’t have any friends, so who was he to judge.

In the dining room was an intense game of strip-beer-pong. The whole rooms was coated in reds and yellows and oranges that hurt Dallon’s eyes. On opposite ends of the table in the center of the room stood William Beckett and Gabe Saporta versus Pete Wentz and Hayley herself. Gabe and William were winning, almost fully clothed except for their shirts, whereas Pete and Hayley were both down to their underwear. Dallon figured they were too drunk to care at this point, with Hayley proudly displaying her breasts and Pete sorting a very obvious hard on. Dallon turned away as Pete made an impressive shot into one of Gabe and William’s cups, forcing them to shove their jeans off.

It was almost funny to see the people Dallon saw everyday so drunk. Dallon could almost cry.

Almost.

Dallon wasn’t sure what he was going to say when he found Brendon he hadn’t really been invited, but how many of these people really had been? Maybe he could ask Brendon to turn down the music.

Lying is a sin, he reminded himself. Just like drinking and sneaking out and staring at William Beckett’s arms as he tossed a ball or the way Pete’s underwear slipped down when he knocked back a red solo cup.

Dallon needed another drink.

Just as he was turning to go back towards the kitchen someone caught his arm. “Dallon?”

Dallon spun around, face to face with Brendon. Brendon was grinning so wide and radiated a pink so bright that Dallon had to squint. Ryan was standing a bit behind Brendon, with an expression on his face that radiated ‘pissed off’, if the dark red outlining him didn’t already give it away.

Dallon almost asked him what was wrong, but bit his tongue.

“Hi Brendon,” Dallon spoke weakly.

“Dude, i had no idea you were coming! Have you gotten a drink-”

“He’s a fuckin’ Mormon, Bren, he’s probably here to tell us to turn down the music or maybe play some of your parents gospel records.”

Brendon, not turning to look at Ryan, rolled his eyes. “Piss off, Ross. Go do a body shot off of Wentz or some shit.”

Ryan looked upset for a brief moment, turning pink both in the face and around the edges, then stomped off.

Brendon’s face softened. “What’s up man? Do you want a drink? If you don’t that's okay, of course, but it’d be rude if I didn’t ask-”

“That’s where i was heading, actually.”

“Killer! I want to see you drunk, Dallon Weekes.”

Brendon didn’t let go of Dallon's arm as he dragged him back into the kitchen, which had emptied considerably. Dallon would bet anything that the strip pong room was packed with horny boys and girls looking for new masturbation material.

Dallon felt his cheeks get hot.

Brendon was quick to start mixing two drinks, grabbing bottles seemingly at random and pouring its contents into red solo cups. Dallon didn’t bother making small talk, though it was obvious Brendon was uncomfortable from the brownish-green that Brendon was radiating. Dallon was simply content watching Brendon’s hands.

“You ever gotten drunk before, Dallon?” Brendon made it obvious what answer he was expecting as he tentatively handed Dallon the cup.

Not seeing why he needed to lie, Dallon said, “yeah.”

Brendon’s expression didn’t change, but he quickly turned grey to match Dallon.

Confusion.

Dallon stared down into the drink that Brendon had handed him. He wondered what this meant, in the grand scheme of things. One drink. One more drink, one more, one more, one more.

“Let’s go up to my room. I’ll even bring my dad’s whiskey.” Brendon smiled, but it wasn’t genuine.

“I’ve heard about your bedroom,” Dallon said sardonically.

“Only good things, I hope.”

Brendon pushed his way through crowds of people, stopping and saying hello to girls that Dallon didn’t recognize. The girls glowed red as they giggled and batted their eyelashes. Dallon figured that lust was about as in the Christmas spirit as you could get.

They moved upstairs and towards a bedroom that Dallon knew.

Dallon topped off his drink.

When Brendon pushed the door open, Dallon almost expected to have some sort of PTSD flashback. Was ready for visions of tan sheets and bruises and hickeys and too, too much color.

But it was quiet. The carpet was the same, the walls were painted blue. The bedroom window view was still Dallon’s bedroom, but the bed didn’t face it anymore. The closet was open and clothes were spilling out, not neat and tidy and full of white collared shirts and black slacks.

Brendon didn’t hesitate as he sat on the floor in front of his bed, crossing his legs. He was wearing those red pants, the ones he wore when Dallon first saw him. His shirt was black, too, but was just a loose t-shirt that Dallon liked better than the button up.

The music from downstairs got quieter when Dallon shut the door, but only a little. Carpet could only do so much.

Dallon sat down next to Brendon gingerly, bringing his long legs to his chest and setting the empty cup down between him and Brendon. “I’ve never been to a party.”

“But you’ve gotten drunk,” Brendon confirmed, taking a slow drink from his own cup.

“Yes.” Dallon stared up at the beige ceiling. There was a crack in the corner that Dallon had memorized. A ‘y’ shape, almost, with the left side extending a few inches longer than its other side.

Dallon felt Brendon’s eyes on him, but didn’t turn to look. It was strange, being here with Brendon Urie, having an almost complete absence of color. Grey didn’t suit him, not like yellow or red or even black.

“I’m confused,” Brendon confessed.

“I know,” Dallon said forlornly. He did. He knew, more than Brendon probably realized. Dallon wanted to change the subject. “Were you and Ryan making love earlier?”

Brendon snorted, then uncorked the whiskey he had grabbed. “Making love. What a stupid term for fucking.” Brendon took a swig of the drink, scowling, then passed it to Dallon. “Making love, no. Having sex, fucking, hitting a home run, fonicating, doing it. Whatever. Yeah.”

Dallon took a drink. It burned his throat unpleasantly.

Brendon continued. “Ross has this obsession with Wentz- Pete, yeah?” Dallon nodded, affirming that he knew who Brendon was talking about, “Ry’s wanted in his pants, for like, years or something. You’ve known them longer, obviously. But all of a sudden I show up and Ross decides that, hey, I know how to get into Pete’s pants!”

Dallon glances over at Brendon, who is staring ahead and talking with his hands. Dallon can’t tell if Brendon is drunk or not.

“So he, and pay close attention to this, he thinks that making Pete jealous will make him fall in love with him or some bullshit!”

“Is he?”

“What?”

“Did it work? Making Pete jealous.”

Brendon rubbed his nose. “They’ve been dating for four weeks now.”

Oh. Okay. Dallon wasn’t expecting that.

Dallon passed Brendon the whiskey, who took it and gulped down a considerable amount. If he wasn’t drunk now, he was on his way. Maybe they could get there together; Brendon could forget his friends-with-benefits gone wrong and Dallon could... forget everything else. The colors and the religion and this room.

They sit in silence for a little while, passing the whiskey back and forth in silence. The edges of Dallon’s vision is starting to blur and the color around Brendon is starting to fade.

“Why have you gotten drunk?” Brendon asks so softly Dallon almost doesn’t hear it.

Dallon opens his mouth and isn’t sure why he starts talking. “When I was fourteen, the guy who lived here before you moved here… really liked me.” Dallon tightened his arms around his legs, rubbing his chin against his knee absently. “One day he just started… saying all these things about, about God, and the church. His wife was religious, I think. He didn't believe in it.”

Brendon stared at the floor, which was almost worse than if he was looking at Dallon. Dallon wished the color would come back. He didn’t like when Brendon was unreadable.

“His wife wasn’t home, and he told me that I was so handsome for my age, that I was so tall, I had so much potential.” Dallon pressed his nose against his leg. Brendon sucked in a breath. “He. He brought me up here and.”

Dallon pressed his palms against his eyes, releasing his legs, but they didn't move away from his chest. His heart was beating inside his ribcage, the walls were coming in, the crack was spreading across the ceiling. He was drunk, too drunk. One too many drinks.

“I didn’t say no. I wanted it, I must’ve.”

Brendon spoke for the first time. “Oh, Dallon.” His voice was tight, pained. Dallon was sure that if he could see the colors that were filling up the room right now, that Brendon would be stunning swirls of blues and greens, but Dallon is just grey. Lights and darks and neutrals and confused, confused, confused.

He’s been confused since he was fourteen.

Dallon felt a hand on his back and another on the side of his face. They weren’t comforting, but he didn’t say anything.

Dallon moved his hands away from his eyes, blinking spots away. “The days after that i spent a lot of time in our wine cabinet.”

Brendon stared at Dallon, his brown eyes full of worry and his lips turned down in an unpleasant frown. Dallon wondered if that’s what Brendon had been expecting, a fucked up story about the Mormon kid and his pedophile neighbor.

Dallon looked up, just to make sure that the ceiling wasn't collapsing. It wasn’t.

They sat in silence for a few moments, Brendon’s hands still on Dallon. They made Dallon’s stomach tighten.

Brendon sighed, then started talking. “I realized I was in love with Ryan when he and Pete got together. He was a little drunk and a little jealous of Pete and Hayley, I think, so we were making out and it just sort of slipped out. He got really upset about it. I’m avoiding him, now.”

Dallon nodded. He didn’t want to be in this room anymore. He was suffocating, and he missed the colors. He wished he was anything other than grey. “Do you think we could go to a different room?”

Brendon blinked, not having expected that. He scrambled up, grabbing the almost empty bottle of whiskey. “Yeah, yes! We can,” Brendon wobbled on his feet, “we can go to my parents. Or one of my little sisters’.”

Dallon stood up, far more composed than Brendon. Brendon still lead the way, though, pushing past and opening the door, letting Dallon out. Dallon didn’t look close enough, but he could’ve sworn that Brendon loosened up after shutting the door behind them.

They sat cross legged across from each other on Brendon’s parents’ bed, the now empty bottle in between them and their shoes on the floor. Dallon didn’t want to talk, Brendon did. Brendon rattled on about one of his sisters, how Brendon had caught her kissing a girl one night. Brendon recounts that Kara claims she’s in love with the girl, even though she’s only a freshman.

He says that they moved from Saint George to Las Vegas because Mr Urie caught Mrs Urie with another man, not once, but twice.

If Brendon’s family ever found out that they had a gay daughter and a bisexual son, Brendon says he’d take Kara and move to Canada somewhere. Brendon smiles as he says it; Dallon can almost see the yellow around his head, like a halo.

“You could come with us,” Brendon says so quickly Dallon almost doesn’t catch it.

“Why would I want to do that?” Dallon shoots back just as quickly.

“I don’t know. You don’t seem happy here.”

Dallon doesn’t have anything to say to that.

Instead, Dallon finds his fingers in Brendon’s dark hair and his mouth pressed against the other boys’ in an inexperienced and desperate kiss. Dallon didn't know what he was doing, wasn’t sure how to move or where to put his hands except touch touch he wanted to touch.

Brendon’s hands come up to Dallon’s shoulders quickly, balling the sweatshirt into his fists, pulling Dallon as close as he can, their noses pressing against each other. Brendon started moving his mouth, the expert in this situation, and oh yes. There it is. Brendon’s hands moved up, pressing against Dallon’s face and his neck, while Dallon’s moved down, unsure where to go or where to touch but wanting to to touch everywhere, his long fingers pulling at the hem of Brendon’s shirt, itching to go under.

Brendon pulled away, tugging off his shirt. For a few brief seconds, Dallon allowed himself to breathe, look at Brendon, breathe, look at Brendon.

Brendon was red or pink or purple, Dallon couldn’t quite tell, he was in a haze. The room felt heavy, like someone had dumped a bucket of paint over every surface.

Brendon’s skin was light and smooth, Dallon ran the tips of his fingers over Brendon’s stomach before Brendon pulled him back in, reattaching their mouths, and okay, Dallon could deal with that.

Brendon pressed his tongue into Dallon’s mouth just as Dallon pressed his palms against Brendon’s chest, unsure. Feeling, touching. Familiarizing.

Brendon’s mouth moved on to Dallon’s cheek, jaw, neck, leaving sloppy wet kisses in his wake. Brendon’s hands were everywhere, it was almost too much. Dallon was drunk, Dallon was drunk, he was sure of it. He was drunk. He’d have to say so many prayers and drink so much wine after this.

“Bren,” he heard come out of a stranger's mouth, not his, too desperate, too needy. Brendon’s hands shoved off Dallon’s hoodie and moved to the buttons of his shirt, starting from the top. Brendon’s mouth remained at his neck, biting the skin underneath his ear at his jaw, pulling and sucking, leaving a bruise. A much welcomed bruise. Dallon wanted it there, just like he wanted Brendon’s hands on his chest and his lips on his own and his d-

Dallon moved down to catch Brendon’s lips again as Brendon finished unbuttoning, pulling off the flannel and tossing it somewhere on the floor. They separated to pull of Dallon’s undershirt, before connecting at the mouths again. This. Dallon liked this part.

Hands moved to belts, Dallon wasn’t sure who moved first. Brendon pulled at Dallon’s belt, struggling to unhook it, having to pull away and look down between them.

They were both hard, an experience that Dallon wasn’t familiar with. He’d get there, though. He would.

Dallon moved his mouth to Brendon’s jaw as Brendon figured out how Dallon’s belt worked, trying to repeat what Brendon had done to him. Bite, suck, lick, repeat. Brendon made a whining noise in the back of his throat, a noise so cute that Dallon chuckled against his neck. Chuckled.

“Shut up,” Brendon said, his voice almost an octave lower, but still playful nonetheless. He figured out Dallon’s belt and tossed it to where the rest of their shirts had ended up, and started tugging Dallon’s pants down.

Unsure of how else to move, Dallon collapsed onto his back as Brendon pulled his jeans away and tossed them onto the floor, then moved up to lean over Dallon, swooping down to kiss Dallon. Brendon radiated pink; Dallon could almost feel his own color wheel shifting.

Dallon audibly gasped as Brendon took Dallon’s hands into his own, moving them between their bodies to where Brendon’s red jeans started, unbuttoned but not unzipped.

Dallon pulled the zipper down with shaking hands, then started to tug. Brendon kicked them off easily, leaving them both in their boxers. Dallon was breathing heavily, and it wasn’t just from the extensive amount of kissing that they’d been doing.

Brendon leaned forward, kissing Dallon. This kiss was softer, gentler. Not as needy or determined as their previous kisses. “Dallon,” Brendon breathed against his lips.

It took Dallon a moment to realize that Brendon was waiting for a response.

“What?”

Brendon looked Dallon in the eye. Dallon couldn’t see what color Brendon was from here, but somehow his eyes still hurt just from looking at Brendon.

“You need to tell me now if you don't want to do this.”

Oh.

Dallon thought about it. Were they drunk? Dallon didn’t think so. At least, Dallon wasn’t, and that was a bit more important. But Brendon was bouncing back from Ryan. Was it selfish? Dallon didn’t know. He was confused.

“I want to.”

Brendon kicked into action within the second, pressing his mouth against Dallon’s before moving to the corner of his mouth, his cheek, nose, eyes, peppering his face with kisses before quickly moving down to his throat, kissing over his adam's apple and jaw, then down his chest. He licked over both of Dallon’s nipples, which Dallon hadn’t been expecting. Dallon’s hands shot out to either side of him, fisting the sheets as Brendon continued to move down, down, down.

Brendon stopped where Dallon’s underwear started, looking up at Dallon through his eyelashes. Brendon pressed his nose to the soft skin there, underneath his belly button where the thin hair started, his lips hovering over the bulge that Dallon had had since he stepped foot in this room, this house, since Brendon Urie walked into church that summer morning.

Dallon kept his eyes on the ceiling when Brendon pulled his boxers down slowly, as if waiting for Dallon to tell him to stop.

Dallon didn't.

His boxers were pulled down and Brendon’s mouth was immediately on Dallon’s cock, licking over the head before taking him all the way in with ease.

How did people say this was a sin? God wouldn't have made it feel so good if he was spending his free time hating on all the poor, sad, gay kids that he created anyway. Sad kids like Brendon. Like Dallon.

Dallon’s hand moved to the back of Brendon’s head, not controlling or pushing, but needing to ground himself. Make sure he was real.

Brendon was real. So, so real.

Dallon wondered if he was being quiet. Could the people below them hear them? Dallon could still hear the music, some sort of poppy Christmas song with lots of sleigh bells.

Brendon licked a stripe up the underside of Dallon’s cock, then took the head back into his mouth, before pulling off with a wet pop, moving his mouth to Dallon’s hip bone for one hot second, then pulling away.

“I’ll be right back.”

Dallon stared at the purple form in front of him, blinking quickly. “Where are you going?”

“Condoms, lube. Trust me, you’ll want them.” Brendon finished his sentence a little awkwardly, leaving Dallon alone, naked with his thoughts.

What was he doing? What was he doing? He wasn’t drunk anymore. He could see color again, he was aware, too aware. Painfully aware of the boner that sat between his legs and the beautiful boy in the room down the hall and the empty bottle of whiskey on the floor and the people downstairs.

Dallon looked up at the ceiling. No cracks. Rolled over.

Brendon came back, a tube and a packet of condoms in his hand. White circled around him like smoke.

Dallon couldn’t place why.

Brendon moved to the bed slowly, kneeling next to where Dallon had moved to lay on his side, attempting to keep his face blank. Grey.

Brendon leaned down, placing a kiss to the side of Dallon’s head. Somehow it was more intimate.

Dallon lifted a hand, pressing the soft skin above the hem of Brendon’s boxers lightly. Brendon breathed in, reaching out and running his fingers through Dallon's hair as Dallon dipped just the tips of his fingers into the underwear, unsure.

“Don’t be a tease,” Brendon said teasingly, a little tightly.

Dallon pulled the boxers down as Brendon leaned down, kissing Dallon, rolling him back onto his back. One of his hands stayed at Dallon's side while the other ran along the inside of Dallon’s thighs, over his hole, for just a moment. A shudder ran through Dallon’s entire body, up his spine and to his fingertips, which were holding tightly onto the sheets of the bed. Brendon lowered his mouth back down onto Dallon’s aching member, his hand wrapping around the base to give it a few pumps before Brendon reached over, grabbing the lube.

Dallon sucked in a breath when he heard the tell tale signs of the uncapping and capping, waiting. He closed his eyes. This was better. It was better. He wanted this.

It was cold when Brendon pressed a tentative finger to the tight ring of muscle, nudging its way in.

Dallon breathed slowly as the finger moved its way in. It didn’t hurt, but it was uncomfortable. Dallon pushed the thought of it's been three years away from his mind. He was here, now.

Brendon kept his mouth over Dallon’s cock as his pushed his finger all the way in, letting it sit for a few seconds before pulling it almost all the way out. Dallon let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding, but sucked in another as Brendon pushed back in.

That continued for a minute, Dallon seeing bright yellow stars every time Brendon would lick over a certain vein or his calloused finger would brush over a particularly sensitive spot, before Dallon let out a breathy, “more.”

Brendon complied, pushing in his slicked up middle finger inch by inch. That was certainly a stretch, Dallon squeezed his eyes shut right as Brendon took his cock all the way in in an attempt to mask the pain, his lips meeting his hand at the base momentarily.

It took a few more minutes than the first to get used to. Brendon muttered words against Dallon’s hips, things that sounded like encouragement of some sort. Dallon threw an arm over his eyes as Brendon added a third finger, almost too much to bear. It’s been too long, too long, too soon, he needed more time-

Dallon bit his bicep to muffle a moan when Brendon brushed a particular spot inside of him that he hadn't hit before, muttering “there you are,” moving his fingers in an almost sort of beckoning motion, hitting the nerves over and over again. “Bren, Brendon, jesus-”

Brendon hummed, biting the inside of Dallon’s left thigh, leaving a mark. “That’s the closest you’ve gotten to swearing.”

Dallon turned bright pink. “Shut up, need you inside-”

Brendon took that as the go ahead, pulling his fingers out and grabbing a condom and the lube again. Dallon whined, feeling empty for the first time, for the first time wanting something inside, needing something-

Brendon ripped open the condom packet with his teeth, quickly slipping it on his cock with what Dallon can only describe as skill, moving to hover over Dallon. Their dicks brushed together as Brendon moved down to kiss Dallon, his tongue pressing in hungrily.

“Are you sure?” Brendon whispered into Dallon’s mouth. Dallon scoffed.

“I wouldn’ve let you put three fingers in me and your mouth on me if I wasn’t.”

Brendon laughed and Dallon almost smiled, almost, Brendon reaching between them and guiding his cock to Dallon’s stretched hole. Dallon wasn’t sure. He wasn’t.

Dallon took a deep breath, Brendon pushed inside.

It hurt. Of course it did, it always, always would, but it was also good. Brendon’s mouth was on Dallon’s collarbone as he slowly moved forward, always licking or biting. Dallon’s hands moved to Brendon’s back, holding on for his life. He felt every agonizing inch that Brendon pushed in, his eyes slipping closed. Dallon’s hand snaked up to the back of Brendon’s neck, pulling his lips back for a kiss, desperate for contact that Brendon happily gave, burying himself into Dallon's tight heat. He was all the way in.

Slowly, Brendon started moving, pushing up into Dallon with a bull’s force, guttural moans coming out of his mouth and into Dallon’s where they were attached. Dallon found himself praying, thanking God for this, thank God and Jesus and whoever else was written in their bible that Dallon never quite believed in. Brendon was cursing and moaning and making noise, but all Dallon could do was press his nose into Brendon’s hair, breathe him in. Bite his earlobe and let a few breaths escape.

Faster, faster Brendon moved, moving his hips in circles, pushing and pulling in and out of Dallon. Dallon rushed out a quick “fucking jesus christ, Bren-” when Brendon hit that spot inside of him, so Brendon kept hitting it, enjoying the curses that were spilling out of Dallon’s mouth. “I’m going to, i don’t,” Dallon sputtered out, moving his lips to press against Brendon’s cheek, his back arching when Brendon pushed brutally hard into him.

“It’s okay, you can, it’s okay,” Brendon reached between them, pulling on Dallon’s cock, “you can come.”

Dallon pulled at Brendon’s hair, tugging him down into a kiss as he came, his hot come spilling over Brendon’s hand and onto Dallon’s stomach. All Dallon could do was kiss and breathe and kiss and breath and close his eyes, Brendon still thrusting into him.

Brendon came with a low moan of “Dallon-”, giving one final push into Dallon, who was sensitive and sore but didn’t mind all that much.

Neither moved for a few seconds, Brendon still inside, Dallon still pressing kisses along the side of Brendon’s face. A heavy silence passed between them.

Brendon pulled out and rolled onto his back, Dallon emitting a small sound as he did so. Brendon pulled the condom off, tying it and tossing it onto the floor, then rolled over to stare at Dallon. Dallon wasn’t in the mood for staring.

Dallon stayed on his back, wishing there was a crack in the ceiling. It would have been comforting, somehow.

Dallon rolled over, looking at Brendon. The music was still playing downstairs.

“Don't you kick them out at some point?” Dallon said to break the silence.

Brendon reached out, holding one of Dallon’s hands gingerly, like Dallon was a ticking time bomb.

He might be. He’d have to wait and see what happens when he gets home.

“They usually get the hint around four am.”

Dallon looked over at the wall clock. Three-forty.

Brendon reached over to the bedside table, turning off the light. Dallon pulled back the covers, crawling into them, his ass a little sore. Brendon pulled Dallon to his chest, his cold nose pressed to the nape of Dallon’s neck.

Dallon closed his eyes, and after what felt like hours, passed out.

-

Christmas came with a sense of dread.

Dallon was warm, warmer than he had felt in a long time, but that was probably because of the body that was pulled to his chest. Brendon Urie was breathing evenly, a soft pink glow visible through the dark. Brendon’s nose was pressed against Dallon’s throat, his mouth hanging open, rubbed red from extensive kissing.

He didn’t regret it. He didn’t.

Dallon pressed his face into Brendon’s soft hair. He smelled like sweat, and maybe a little like Dallon, he wasn’t sure. He was probably imagining things.

Dallon untangled his legs from Brendon’s, unwrapped his arms from his torso, and pulled himself out of bed.

Brendon didn’t stir.

Dallon grabbed his things just by feeling, afraid to turn on the light. His sweatshirt, his jeans. The button up. Underwear, undershirt, socks, shoes.

A heavy weight was sitting in Dallon’s stomach. He could feel the dried come on his stomach and his hair was sticking to his neck and forehead. This was wrong, it didn’t feel good anymore.

The clock read five twenty-two.

Dallon’s mother had once said that nothing good happened after three am. Dallon sniffed as he shrugged on his sweatshirt. For once, she was right.

Dallon was tempted to leave a kiss on the side of Brendon’s head, crawl back under the covers and fam back asleep, but he didn’t as he passed the bed.

He wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

The door clicked shut quietly. The hallway light was on, but there was no sound. The party had evacuated, just like Brendon had said. Down the stairs, a few people laid, passed out on the couch or any flat surface. Cups and Santa hats were everywhere, the only thing reminding Dallon of the bitter holiday spirit.

Dallon walked out the house without having made a sound. Not a creature was stirring.

Only when Dallon stepped into the threshold of his own house did Dallon close his eyes. Dallon leaned against the door, his chest constricting as hot tears pooled in his eyes. What had he done? What had he done?

Brendon was different, Brendon had listened and Brendon went to church and Brendon. Brendon, who was in love with a boy who didn’t love him back, who made Dallon feel like he was more than just grey.

Dallon sunk down to the floor, bringing his knees up to his chest. He almost taste the whiskey on his tongue. He thumped his head back against the door, rubbing his palms against his eyelids until he saw specks of grey.

Dallon ran his hands down his face, pulling at the tight skin. Down his neck and chest where hickeys and love bites covered the pale skin. Dallon retched, moving onto his side, nothing coming up.

He was grey. Destined to always be grey. Full, calculated, boring. Confused.

Lord knows Dallon was now.

-

Church the following Sunday came on a cloudy day. It was hot, in the church, like it always was. Dallon’s palms were sweating as his fingers moved along the keys, his eyes fixed on them. The Urie’s were in the front row of pews to the right of the piano, all staring at the pastor as he preached the word of the lord.

Brendon was there, red pants and black button up. Dallon missed his beautiful swirls of color. And the Mr and Mrs stood at opposite ends of their children, with Brendon and the eldest girl next to them, going down the line until the littlest girl was in the middle, probably only four or five years old, not understanding yet that their family was a mess. They were all white, like they always were, but now Dallon noticed the colors underneath the surface. Man and wife, matching shades of the lightest color of green, and oldest daughter, almost pink. Brendon was grey, but there was a lost shade of blue, too, flickering in and out like a candle.

Dallon tried to focus on the music, he really did.

When the service was over, he quickly shut the music book, tossing it into his bag, and tried to find his parents. Quick escape, Dallon, find them before-

“Dallon.”

Dallon didn’t bother turning, ignoring Brendon as he pushed past an old woman who tried to talk to him as well. He didn't want to talk to anyone.

“Dallon! Can’t you be an adult about this?”

Dallon stopped in one of the hallways near the front of the church, by the bathrooms. Brendon ran into his back. “Jesus Christ, Dallon, your legs are way too long-”

Dallon spun around, staring down at Brendon. Brendon’s color had darkened from earlier, but it was quickly softening as Dallon reeled on him. “What? What do you want from me? A quickie in the bathroom?”

“What? No, of course not! And be quiet would you?”

Dallon ran a hand across his head, pushing his hair away from his face. Brendon made an exasperated sound before grabbing Dallon by the arm and dragging him down another hallway and into a confessional. Dallon breathed through his nose, the words forgive me father for I have sinned almost slipping off his tongue.

Brendon shut the door and locked it in a single motion, before turning back to Dallon.

They stared at each other in silence. For a brief moment, Dallon considered leaning down the scarce few inches and kissing him.

He didn’t.

Instead, he said, “what?”

Brendon shifted back and forth on his feet, suddenly awkward. “I just… you disappeared on me, on Christmas.”

Dallon blinked, waiting for Brendon to go on.

“I… i didn’t make you do anything you didn’t want to, right?”

Dallon stared at Brendon, confused. Brendon thought he had raped Dallon? “Uh, no, you didn’t. We might’ve been a little drunk but I promise, it was consenting.”

Brendon let out a long breath, visibly less tense now. “Then… why did you leave?”

“I don’t want to be your rebound.”

Realization dawned on Brendon’s face. Dallon looked somewhere above his head, not wanting to look at the hurt look on his face.

“You’re not…” Brendon reached up, running his hands through his hair. Dallon looked back down at Brendon, but Brendon was no longer looking at him, instead his eyes focused on their shoes. If Dallon strained his eyes enough, he could see a hickey poking out of the collar of Brendon’s shirt. Dallon had tried just about every trick in the book to get rid of his own- but they were still purple and covered his hips and chest and neck. Brendon sucked in a shaky breath. “Ryan shut me down. And that sucks. But. That doesn’t mean…”

Dallon held his breath.

“I want to be with you. Like, a couple.”

Dallon wanted to scream. He wanted to scream i’m not like that! I’m not into men or boys or guys! but he’d be lying. He was; he so, so was. Every single part of him was.

Dallon watched as Brendon turned pink, both in the face and around the edges.

“Okay,” he said, simply.

Brendon lit up like a Christmas tree, lifting his head to look at Dallon. His face was split into a grin. “Really?”

Dallon slowly nodded. He didn’t know what he was doing. “I think… I could. I can.”

Brendon reached up, wrapping one of his arms around Dallon’s neck, pulling their mouths together. The only word Dallon could use to describe it was pink.

Dallon, for the first time since he was fourteen, felt pink, and red, and purple and orange and blueandgreenandyellow and every single color on the spectrum. He wasn’t grey anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> my tumblr : allahlav


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